Sad Prayers For Guilty Bodies
by BulletBlaze
Summary: Derek is overall pretty content with his crowded, yet lonely life in New York City. He's got his demons to keep him company, but apparently the universe decided they weren't enough, so it dropped street artist Stiles Stilinski into his life. And with him, Stiles brought more secrets and traumas than even Derek was used to. Warnings: child abuse and elements of rape/non-con.
1. Chapter 1

Derek didn't regret moving to New York; not once. Of course he missed his family and his old home and his friends, but the guilt of what almost happened was seriously detrimental to his functioning mind. A change of pace was imperative to his dwindling sanity, and New York City was basically the opposite of everything his life had been like in Beacon Hills. It was fast-paced and crowded and intimidating and so different from what Derek was used to.

It was exactly what he needed.

However, just because he had made the decision to move all the way across the country didn't mean he was no longer a part of his family's lives. Which was why Derek found himself walking down block after block, trying and failing to find the perfect birthday present for his little sister, Cora. She wasn't like most kids her age. Music and books were fun ways to stay occupied, sure, but weren't all that important to her. Most of her play time activities were dominated by imaginary scenarios and fanciful tales full of wizards and knights and werewolves, but she never wanted any props, saying that she preferred making up her own in her head, making sure they were a perfect fit for the character. And typical girly clothes or makeup or jewelry or hair accessories were a big no-no. The last time someone had gotten Cora a bracelet as a gift, she had used it to hang the Barbie she had also been given, but didn't want.

Despite all of the things Cora was most definitely _not_ into, Derek knew of her love of art. It was truly a curious passion for the girl to have, considering she had no interest in drawing, coloring, painting or anything else of the sort. But she absolutely _loved_ adding new artwork to her collection. The pieces she liked the most were just like herself - vibrant, original, and just different enough to be interesting.

And this was not just any birthday, no, it was her 11th, which she found very important ("It's a double number, Derek! This will probably only happen eight times in my life!"). So he wanted the artwork he got her to be something she would truly love. Being in NYC, there was definitely no shortage of 'lost artists' just trying to 'find themselves', but so far, most of what he'd seen in those second-hand, hole-in-the-wall art shops were more or less the same as what was in the big stores' home decor sections. He didn't want to buy something that looked just like one of her other pieces. The landscapes were beautiful, but she already had some that looked similar. The portraits meant nothing to her unless she knew the person whose image was being captured. Abstract art was nothing special in her opinion because she 'could easily make that herself if she wanted'. Derek needed to find something… from a different view point. Something other wordly. Something she couldn't see in real life but could easily grasp. Something truly special.

Just then, Derek rounded a corner and his nose was assaulted with the strong smell of spray paint. His eyes sought out the source and found a figure hunched over a fold-out table. He was moving around cans of different colored spray paint and what looked like pallet knives, straight edges, and circular caps, cups, and lids. Everything was covered in paint, including the jeans and flannel the man was wearing. His face was partially obscured by a mask, probably a respirator. A few people were standing around him, looking down at whatever was on the table with anticipation. His interest and curiosity having been piqued, Derek approached the small crowd and peered at the man's project. Sadly, the piece of poster paper currently occupying his work space was blank, the white glossiness just waiting to be disrupted with color.

Once the guy seemed to have gotten all of his supplies in a chaos he looked familiar and comfortable with, he lifted the respirator up and over his head, running a gloved hand through his messy hair, leaving faint streaks of purple in his bangs. Somehow, despite the mess, he was still easily the most attractive man Derek had ever laid eyes on. His eyes, a burning golden brown, flicked through the small crowd of people waiting for him to begin. Then they stopped on Derek for a moment longer than was probably normal, eyeing him up and down with a smirk that was contradicting his slight blush. It made Derek feel a little self conscious of his appearance- he hadn't shaved for a few days and was sporting some major stubble, and his clothes were probably a little rumpled with his lack of care. Not that the guy seemed to mind. It's not like his clothes were any better, wrinkled and painted and hanging off his skinny frame in a way that said they were a few sizes too big.

The guy cleared his throat and went back to moving a few things around. Then he looked up at a woman standing in front of him, tapping his fingers on his table and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"Anything specific you want? A lanscape? A logo? A galaxy? Any favorite colors?" His voice was loud and clear, easily traveling over the hustle and bustle of the New York streets to capture the attention of everyone around him.

The woman looked thoughtful for a quick moment before nodding decisively. "Yeah, can you make it a forest? A black and white forest?"

"Sure thing. Any other specifics?"

"Just, I need it to be perfect. So just make it worth the fifteen bucks, 'kay?" Her judgment and skepticism of his abilities were clear on her face and in her voice, and it rose Derek's hackles slightly. The guy's eyebrows furrowed in irritated disbelief and his smile became not so polite, but he just nodded.

"Don't worry, I never let rude customers affect my work. Now, unless you want to be covered in black and white paint, I suggest you step back and let me try to make it worth the fifteen bucks, 'kay?" His tone was absolutely dripping with a sarcastic mixture of annoyance and sass and mockery that pulled a snort from Derek's throat. The guy must have heard it, because he flicked his eyes over to him and winked, then returned his gaze to the flustered woman. It happened so quick, Derek almost thought he imagined it.

The woman took a sheepish step back and adjusted her skirt and jacket haughtily. She waved her hand at the guy to continue.

He raised his eyebrows and said, "Oh, I can start now? Thank you so much for the permission, really, it means a lot."

And so he began. The respirator was pulled back in place and he tugged a pair of latex gloves onto his hands. The next few minutes were filled with the fumes of spray paint, covering the paper in ways that didn't seem to make any sense, and then, with just a few lines of paint and a few scratches of pallet knives, everything seemed to come together. The moon was in the center of the paper, filling the forest around it with an eerie glow that shone off of the waterfall in front of it, which Derek hadn't even noticed him make. He grabbed a newspaper advertisement from a box by his feet, setting it on the poster and pulling off layers of paint with each press. When he finally pulled away from it, using the knife to scratch in some design, Derek could clearly see that he had added rocks around the waterfall. It looked complete, but it seemed the guy didn't think so. He sprayed a generous amount of black and white onto a separate piece of paper, crumpled up a sheet of newspaper, and mixed them together. The gray mixture he created was then patted onto the bare trees with the newspaper, creating leaves. Lastly, he added in some rays from from the moon, making it truly glow. Scratching his signature into the bottom corner as the final touch, the guy then wiped his hands on his pants and pulled the mask off his face.

The small crowd clapped as he showed the painting to them. It was then taped to a black backdrop paper and the ends were connected together, making a handle with the masking tape. The guy held out both hands, one holding the painting, the other palm up. The woman stepped forward and placed fifteen dollars into his waiting hand, taking the picture from the other. She hurriedly thanked him before briskly walking away.

The guy clapped his hands, rubbing them together through the latex, and smiled at the dissipating crowd. He waved to a few of them and grinned at the few who hadn't watched their fill.

"So. Who's next?" he asked.

Derek's feet carried him forward without him telling them to, and his mouth opened without him giving it permission.

"I'd like one."

Grinning once again, the guy started cleaning up his work space, putting things back into the places they had been before. "Fantastic! What would you like?"

Derek thought for a moment. Something Cora didn't have a lot of…

"You said you could make space scenes?"

This guy just never seemed to stop smiling. "I sure can! Any colors you want me to throw in there?"

"Blues and greens?"

Nodding enthusiastically, the guy said, "Definitely. Now, anything else you want to make sure I do right?"

Derek snorted, thinking of the woman who had just been in his place. "No. You're the artist, after all. I trust your judgment."

The guy tilted his head a little, an expression coming across his face that Derek couldn't quite decipher. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. And before we get started, your name is…?"

"Derek."

"Well, Derek, you are much more pleasant than my previous customers have been. I'm Stiles, nice to meet you."

The guy, Stiles, stuck his hand out to shake. Then he seemed to notice that he was still wearing his paint-covered gloves.

"Oh, shit!" He pulled the glove off his right hand. "Sorry, sometimes I forget stuff like that. But anyway, redo! I'm Stiles, nice to meet you." This time when he stuck out his hand, Derek grasped it in his own, noting how firmly Stiles' handshake was, and how calloused his fingers and palm were.

"Nice to meet you, Stiles," Derek said, smiling openly at the genuine man in front of him. Their hands stayed joined for a brief moment after the shake was done. Stiles let them fall apart with a cough.

"Alrighty then. Blue and green galaxy. Mind if I add a little something special to it?" Stiles asks.

"No, do whatever. Just keep in mind it's for an eleven-year-old."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "What kind of artist do you think I am, exactly?" He teased back with a smirk. Derek huffed out a laugh and stepped back as Stiles put his gloves and mask back in place. Then he got to work, and all communication ceased to exist as Stiles focused on his art.

It started out much the same way as the other had; he sprayed some random green and blue down near the top-left corner of the paper. Then he put a piece of the glossy advertisement paper onto the paint, running his fingertips over the top before pulling it away, leaving a textured design in its wake. Then, he sprayed some white by the bottom of the design and some dark blue and black near the top. From the right side of the table, Stiles grabbed a large, circular lid that he set over the design, letting it hang mostly over the edge of the paper.

After that, it was mostly just a blur of lines being covered up by different colored lines that Derek in way understood the relevance of. Then he started adding the black, and Derek could see it, the way it was all coming together, just like the other painting had. Stiles sprayed white paint onto his finger, flicking it onto the table once before flicking it a few times over the painting. He repeated the action until the galaxy was filled with stars.

As it turned out, the little 'special something' was actually New York City. At the bottom of the picture, he used a straight edge to scratch in the city's many buildings and towers, and even the Brooklyn Bridge. He then took a straight edge as long as the paper and placed it an inch or so from the bottom. On said inch of paper, Stiles sprayed a few different colors all over it and then swiped his finger back and forth through it. When he lifted the straight edge, it looked like a body of water with the galaxy's light reflecting off of it.

After adding a few more brighter and larger stars in the sky, along with some comets, Stiles lifted the lid at the top of the paper. Underneath it was a luminous and radiant planet of blue and green. Stiles made the few final touches and then signed his name at the bottom. Derek applauded loudly as the artist showed the piece to the few people watching. He attached it to the black paper and wrapped it in tape, as he had the other, making a handle and holding it out to Derek.

Derek, in turn, handed Stiles a twenty dollar bill.

"Oh, uh, here, give me a sec, let me get your change-"

"Keep it," Derek interrupted. "Thank you, Stiles. I know my sister's going to go crazy over this. Maybe I can find you after I give it to her, tell you what she thought?"

Stiles mouth was hanging slightly open, looking completely dumbfounded.

"Uh, yes! Please do! I'd love to hear! And um… thanks, for, you know, the-" Stiles cut himself off and lifted the twenty into the air, waving it around some before dropping it back to his side. "So, I'll, uh, see you around?"

Derek wasn't sure what was going on with himself. He hadn't flirted with anyone since the whole Kate thing, which he didn't like to think about. And that had been before he moved to New York, when he was still in high school. He had told himself that no relationship, romantic or purely sexual, would ever be worth the risk of a repeat of what had happened. Despite all of that, he found himself saying, "I hope so," before returning the wink he had received earlier.

Stiles flushed a bright red, and he nodded jerkily and smiling down at his table. It was really fucking cute, actually, and Derek was seriously starting to freak himself out over this guy. Still, he had said that he would come see him again. And as Derek walked back towards his apartment, he thought maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a slow day for Stiles, making only about eleven paintings opposed to his usual twenty or so. As it turned out, however, he was down to his last full can of black paint and was running low on clear, white, purple, and dark blue. If he had done his normal amount, he may have run out of something he needed. The day's pay was 170 bucks altogether, which would have been good if Stiles didn't have so many expenses. It was times like this he was sort of happy to not have a home to pay for, or a car, or bills. Nope, just food, water, and his art supplies.

Oh yeah, and his father, who was lying comatose on the other side of the country.

The old drunk didn't have a job, or any sort of insurance that came with one- not like he did back when he was a police officer. All he had was government assistance to keep him afloat, counterbalancing the alcohol addiction and the loneliness. He hadn't always been like this. No, he had been lively and happy and kind, surrounded by the wife he loved and the son he adored.

But then his wife had died, and died angry and paranoid. Died leaving her eight-year-old son with a lost, heartbroken father and crippling guilt. Leaving her husband with a kid she accused of killing her, a kid he couldn't look at without seeing her, a kid he knew didn't deserve his neglect and hate and abuse. But he couldn't stop, not with the surplus of alcohol entering his body replacing the money entering his bank account.

He had been let go, his judgment not being anything compared to what it used to be. That's when the abuse part kicked in, literally. One night right after getting fired, John Stilinski was getting drunk in front of the television and his son was hungry. He hadn't had breakfast and John certainly wasn't in any state to make dinner, so Stiles decided to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He was walking to the table, balancing the jelly, peanut butter, bread, knife, and plate in his hands, and the jar of grape jelly just… slipped. It shattered upon impact, shards of glass and sticky jelly going every direction. Stiles yelped and jumped, then yelled again when he landed on the glass, but then went silent as he heard the television volume go down until it was inaudible. He stood there, frozen, as the heavy, uncoordinated footsteps staggered closer and closer. Stiles watched with tears already forming in his wide eyes as his father rounded the corner, looked at his son, the mess on the floor, and back up. John's eyes narrowed and Stiles' widened further. The shaky and urgent apology had barely passed his lips before he felt himself being shoved brutally backwards, the table digging painfully into his bony shoulder blades.

"Look what you've done, you little shit! The hell's wrong with you?!"

Stiles stared at his dad with hot tears spilling over onto his cheeks, utterly terrified. Moving carefully, not wanting to feel trapped between the table and the enraged man, he avoided the glass and whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Daddy, I didn't mean to, I'll clean it up-"

"Hell yeah, you'll clean it up! What the fuck else would you do, you dumb shit! Did you think I was going to?!" Then his voice abruptly dropped from it's booming bellow to a harsh, quiet hiss. "After all I've done for you, all I've sacrificed, and you want more. You don't deserve more, you don't deserve anything I've given you, anything I've given up for you!" The stranger, drunk with whiskey and rage, stepped forward and his boots crunched the glass under them. He reached out for Stiles, grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him closer, making his bare feet drag through the glass and jelly. "You killed your mother, you hear me? You ruined her, just like you ruin everything! She hated you, she fucking hated you! Just like me."

Then he dropped Stiles to the floor, kicked him in the side, and walked back to the living room. Stiles lied on the floor, clutching his side and sobbing silently from the pain in his side and the pain in his heart. From the living room, the stranger yelled, "That shit better be cleaned up in ten minutes! And don't think I won't check! And if it's not…"

Stiles didn't need to hear the rest of the threat before he was scrambling to the cupboard under the sink, pulling out rags and wood floor cleaner. He scooped up as much of the mess as he could with just some rags and paper towels, dumping it into the trashcan. The shards of glass were cold and sharp, but he managed not to cut his fingers as he carefully picked them up one-by-one. His feet and knees on the other hand… Well, they would need some band-aids. After successfully cleaning the kitchen floor with just a minute to spare - he had been obsessively checking the time - Stiles rushed upstairs to the bathroom, dug out the first aid kit, and covered all of his little knicks with band aids after rinsing them with water like his mom used to. Only this time, she wasn't there to kiss the pain away.

So he went to bed aching.

Things continued like that for ten more years. Sometimes the stranger would just call him names, or ignore him altogether, and sometimes he would beat him into oblivion. Whenever Stiles had any visible injuries that his father could see when he was blessedly sober, he would break down in tears of his own, gasping out apologies and excuses and "I love you's". And Stiles would forgive him. Every time.

After all, when the stranger became his father again, even for just a few moments, the pain and guilt he felt were already so real and so crushing. Stiles didn't want to cause him any more.

And the thing is, Stiles never really blamed his father for turning into the stranger. For forgetting himself and his obligations and his love in turn for something a little easier to comprehend. And deep down, Stiles knew that his father and the stranger were the same person. He knew that they were both right. Stiles ruined everything, but his father still loved him, and that was enough. Stiles would be waiting for him when he finally realized that becoming the stranger didn't make anything easier, just preventing him from finding closure and finally starting to heal. That was the mindset that had gotten Stiles through life until his 18th birthday, when he could finally get away from the stranger and maybe allow his father some space to move forward. When he finally got out, Stiles moved to New York City with his best friends, Scott and his girlfriend Allison. They all needed a change of scenery, desperately, and NYC seemed perfect.

Stiles' father called every once in awhile to get an update on how they all were. Sometimes the stranger would call, shout a few accusations, and then Stiles would hang up.

The stress and guilt was still a very prevalent part of Stiles' life and he needed an outlet. After many cases of trial and error, he somehow stumbled upon spray art. It was spontaneous and free and imaginative and improvised and _amazing_. Stiles fell in love with it instantly. He practiced and practiced, getting so good he could make an amazing painting in just a few minutes.

Scott and Allison got married just a few months after moving out there. Stiles moved out and found his own apartment close by, allowing them to have their well-deserved privacy. Sure, he was a little lonely, but nothing bad enough to impose himself on the newlyweds. Then they had a kid, and then another. Stiles became 'Uncle Stiles' to the little girls, as well as Godfather, and his name also went on the papers that detailed whom the children would go to in case something happened to their parents. Things felt perfect in a way they hadn't in more than 15 years.

And then one night he got a call asking for a Mr. Stilinski, telling him 'we're sorry to inform you that your father, John Stilinski, has had a major heart attack and slipped into a coma.' And then came all the medical bills. Bills for surgeries and scans and the machines helping keep him alive. Stiles couldn't afford it all, and he didn't technically have a job. At that point, he was already selling his art out on the streets, which paid more than the few jobs he'd had while in New York, so he stuck with it. But it would never be enough. So, he moved out of his apartment and onto Scott and Allison's couch, but that only lasted for about two weeks. Neither of them had extremely high-paying jobs, and they had two children to care for on top of themselves; they didn't have the money for Stiles. Of course they never said this to him, but he saw it in the way their eyebrows furrowed in worry as they stared at their checkbook or in their refrigerator.

So from the couch he moved to a bench a few blocks away from his old apartment. Stiles was 24, and he was homeless. Scott and Allison pleaded with him to come back, saying they would be fine, they would make it, they would all be okay. But Stiles couldn't do that to them, he wasn't willing to. Those kids deserved the best damn life they could get, and if that meant Stiles had to huddle for warmth under his two shirts, two jackets, and hoodie every night to not freeze then so be it. It was that or tell them to take his father off the machines, and he wasn't willing to do that either.

Scott convinced him to sleep over at least once a week and Allison made him come take a shower at least twice a week. Each time he was over, they would make sure he ate something. His nieces, Audrey and Sammy, would squeal and laugh every time they saw him, talking about anything they could think of in that mindless babble Stiles loved so much. They asked why he didn't live with them anymore, and he said that his adventure was pushing him in a different way for a little while. They were still sad, though it had been enough to temporarily satisfy them, but Scott and Allison had tears in their eyes. Stiles fought the urge to tell them off, to say 'You should've expected something like this to happen. You've known me my whole life. You know I always manage to ruin things somehow, it's all I ever do.' But he didn't, because he didn't want to make them even more upset. That's also why he didn't tell them he had let a few horny creeps fuck his mouth for some extra cash, or that he cried himself silently to sleep almost every night, or that his nightmares were getting worse, or that he was always hungry, always stressed, always always _always_ putting on an act for someone.

He said none of this. It wouldn't help anything - nothing would.

And then he'd met Derek, who, after just a few minutes, had made him feel things he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever. In what probably _was_ ever. Stiles had never been in a relationship with anyone before. He'd never gone out on a date, or fallen in love, or anything of the sort. Sure, he'd fucked around his fair share, figured out what he was into, but he'd never looked at someone and thought, 'Wow, I could fall for you,' and he was completely fine with that - happy with it, even.

But Derek was nice, and funny, and had fucking gorgeous _greenhazelblu e_ eyes, and talked to him in a way that made Stiles think they could talk for hours and not get bored or run out of things to say. Stiles had only ever really felt that way about Scott, who was a brother to him, and it had taken them years to get to that point.

So what was so special about Derek? Maybe it was the fact that he'd given Stiles some reassurance about how he was handling life, even if he didn't do it knowingly. Or maybe it was because he said he would come back.

 _Or maybe you're just being fucking stupid_ , Stiles thought to himself. _Get your shit together, man, you've gotta catch at least a few hours of sleep._

So he packed all of his stuff up and dropped it off at Scott's, like he did every night to ensure it wouldn't get stolen. Stiles sighed as he slung his backpack over his shoulders, slowly making his way the few blocks to his bench where he pulled on his other jackets and hoodie, placed his bag under his head like a pillow, and curled up for the night. He knew he would probably only get three to four hours of sleep at the most due to the noises of the city making him flinch and his nightmares making him flinch even harder, but he had to try. And three hours was better than nothing, after all. After a while of simply lying there, staring at the back of his eyelids, Stiles fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of Scott and Allison, locking the door while he screamed from the other side. Of those perverted creeps, forcing him onto his knees as they forced open his mouth. And lastly, of those beautiful eyes staring at him, picking him up and wiping his wet cheeks.

Stiles slept for five and a half hours that night.


	3. Chapter 3

The flight back to Beacon Hills was equal parts calming and nerve-wracking, as per usual. The Hales had always been an incredibly close family, and that wasn't likely to ever change. But every time Derek saw them, he still felt that pang of guilt over what he had let happen. He knew it was his fault, he'd known it since that night. The rest of them tried to tell him it wasn't his fault, not really, how could he have known? And he'd started to believe them, too.

But then Peter had gotten him alone. Derek made plans to leave the same night.

His family hadn't understood why he was leaving, but Derek just had to. After Peter managed to fill his head with the truth, it was all he could think about. It was consuming him, and he knew then he had to get out of there or he would suffocate.

Maybe, though, he had deserved to suffocate. It's what almost happened to the rest of them, after all.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Derek collected his baggage and searched the crowd. After a few minutes, he heard his name being yelled and turned just in time to catch a glimpse of long, brown hair before he was being plowed into by 140 pounds of flowery-smelling older sister. He let go of his bags and wrapped Laura in a crushing hug, breathing her in for a moment. When they let go, Laura reached up and cupped Derek's cheeks, turning his face this way and that way.

She simply stared at him for a few seconds and then said, "You look like a mountain man. Seriously, you're shaving tonight."

Derek huffed out a laugh. "Hi, Laura. I'm doing okay. Missed you, too."

She swatted him on the arm before pulling him into another embrace. "Oh shut up, you _know_ I missed you. We all miss you, Der," she said, pulling back with a sad frown.

And there it was. Derek was expecting, but he had to be honest - he hadn't expected it the second he arrived. "Laura. Can we not do this now? You know I need this. I'm getting better, okay? I'll come back when I'm ready. For now, I really like New York. A lot better than I did when I first moved there, that's for sure." And for some reason, _Stiles_ popped up in his mind. Which was _stupid_ and _insane_ because, yeah, okay, he had been really cute and talented and witty and bold and genuine and-

 _No,_ thought Derek. _Family now, irrational attraction later._

But still. He just couldn't stop seeing that lopsided grin and shining eyes. And it seemed Laura noticed.

"Oh my god."

Derek blanched, shaking himself out of his head. "What?"

"Oh my _god_."

"Laura, what?"

She grabbed his hands and bounced up and down a few times.

"Oh my god!"

"Laura! What?!"

"Derek!" She was still bouncing. "You met someone, didn't you? Oh my god, you totally met someone!"

Sighing, Derek let go of her hands, instead placing them on her shoulders to cease the bouncing. "No, Laura, I'm still as single as I'm going to be for at least the next few years. Will you calm down? You're drawing attention."

She wasn't, but anything to get her to stop shouting at him about his love life.

No luck, alas.

"No no no, you met someone. I can see it, you can't tell me otherwise. And just because you're not dating said person doesn't mean you don't want to be! Who is it? What's her name? Or his name? What do they look like? How'd you guys meet? Der! You gotta tell me these things!" She tugged at his jacket as if she could pull the answers from it.

"Laura, can we please just go? I'm exhausted and really don't feel like talking about this right now."

Letting go of the leather, Laura clapped her hands and exclaimed, "You didn't deny it! Do not think you're getting out of this, Der-Bear. I'm going to get it out of you, just you wait." With her stern and determined tone of voice, Derek knew that she probably would. He never was good at keeping things from her.

He let out another long-suffering sigh and collected his bags from the floor, following his sister out to her car. They threw the luggage in the back and climbed into the front seats, Derek running his hands appreciatively over the leather seats of the sleek black camaro that he had always been jealous of. The drive home was filled with Laura's incredibly intrusive questions, which he eventually drowned out with the radio, much to the irritation of the curious little interrogator.

Finally, they pulled onto the wooded road that led up to the new Hale Manor. Every time he saw it felt like a punch to the gut. He had stuck around long enough to help it get rebuilt, of course he had, but just barely. In all honestly, he still wasn't used to it. Probably wouldn't ever be.

The front door opened as Derek was closing the passenger door and a little rocket with dark hair burst out across the yard and straight into Derek's waiting arms. He spun Cora around in the air, her laughter replacing the cold guilt with warmth.

"Derek! Stop, let me down!" she yelled even as she giggled. He stopped spinning her around and hugged her tightly. Cora's arms wound around his neck and she buried her face under his jaw. Derek his his grin in her messy hair, happy to be able to be with her.

So maybe had missed his family more than he thought.

More of the family trickled out onto the lawn, everyone there for Cora's 11th birthday. Derek dropped Cora back onto her feet with a kiss to her forehead.

"Derek! You look good, oh brother of mine!"

"Carter, how are you?" Derek asked his older brother, Laura's twin.

"Pretty damn good! I actually have something to tell you later. Something to tell everyone, actually."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Should I be scared?"

"No!" Carter looked insulted, but then his expression morphed into something more contemplative. "Well, maybe I guess…"

Before he could respond, someone else was calling his name.

"Derek, sweetheart! Come give me a hug, young man!"

Talia Hale walked down the porch steps alongside her husband, Eric Hale, and Derek went to hug both of them. "Oh, Derek, honey I've missed you so much." His mother's voice sounded thick with emotion, and Derek once again felt guilty for leaving.

Guilt was a common feeling with him, if it wasn't obvious.

"I missed you, too, Mom. You too, Dad."

Talia squeezed him tighter and Eric patted her shoulder. "You're gonna crush him, Dear."

Pulling away, she wiped her eyes and fanned her face briefly before clearing her throat. "Sorry, sorry, baby. It's just been so long since I've seen your handsome face, is all. But anyway! Everyone else is inside getting ready for dinner. Laura and Carter can bring your stuff up to your room, just go get washed up and we'll all catch up in a few, alright?"

Nodding, Derek kissed his mother on the cheek and then walked around her into the house. His trip to the bathroom was interrupted by a handful of aunts, uncles, and cousins stopping to greet him with hugs and kisses. Luckily he hadn't seen Peter yet, nor had he noticed his car out front. Maybe he wouldn't be there.

No such luck.

Just as Derek was opening the door to enter the bathroom, a smooth voice sounded behind him.

"Nephew. Long time no see. How's isolation?"

Turning to face him, Derek's head automatically bent down toward the floor in submissive shame. "Peter. New York's fine." They stood in silence for a moment, Peter inspecting Derek's hunched form.

"Good. I'm glad you've found somewhere you're not putting us- I mean yourself- in danger."

Derek felt himself flinch at the jab and nodded, not saying anything else.

"Well, you better go wash up. Dinner's about ready."

Derek quickly slammed the door shut behind him.

Dinner was nice. Really nice. Peter was sat at the other end of the table, luckily, and Derek was engaged in many different conversations with many different family members. The room was filled with the warm smell of home cooked food and delighted laughter.

Carter pushed back his chair and stood up, calling for attention.

"So, I just wanted to tell you all that I got the job! I am now at nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital!"

The table erupted with applause and cheers and congratulations. Carter was grinning like a madman, obviously incredibly pleased with himself. The next ten or so minutes were filled with questions about how he found out and when he starts. Eventually, things settled down to a dull roar once again and Laura took the opportunity to announce that she was dating someone. Everyone got quiet; it wasn't everyday that Laura accepted any sort of flirtation, much less agree to go on a date.

"But, the only way I will tell you who is if Der-Bear here tells us who it is that he met."

And, just like that, all the eyes shifted to him. Everyone looked incredulously at him, surprised at the statement. Some had looks of disbelief, and his mom had a surprised smile, eyes wide.

"Oh, really? You've met someone, huh? Care to share?" she asked.

Derek glared at his sister who looked back with a mischievous grin. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly feeling incredibly tired. "Guys… It's not like that, okay? Laura has no idea what she's talking about. I'm not seeing anyone. I'm not planning on dating anyone. I'm not even flirting with anyone, alright? Don't worry about it."

At that, Talia's smile dropped into a frown. "Derek… sweetheart, we're not-"

"I know," Derek cut her off. "I know. Just… can we talk about something else? Please? C'mon, it's Cora's birthday tomorrow! It's a double number and everything!"

Cora took the bait and immediately went on her rant about how special turning eleven was, capturing the attention of most of the table, albeit reluctantly. Laura glared at him, and so did his mother. Both of their eyes said that this was most definitely not a finished conversation.

And just like their glares had promised, Derek was cornered later that night by Laura and his mother as he prepared for bed.

He had just changed into sweats and an old tee when a knock came at his door.

"Come in."

In walked Talia, and behind her was Laura, who just looked like a younger Talia. The similarities continued into their facial expressions, both of them giving him exasperated looks, though Talia's was more worried as opposed to Laura's aggressive glare.

"So. What's this about you meeting someone? Your sister wouldn't stop talking about it."

"Mom," Derek groaned. "It's nothing, okay? I'm serious."

Derek," Laura then cut in, stepping forward. "You need to stop this. This whole self-hatred thing is seriously starting to become more than it ever should have. We get that you feel guilty, and that you blame yourself, but we don't! You are literally the only one who feels that way about what happened. Kate? She was a bitch, and it's a damn good thing you broke up with her, despite what it resulted in. Cause if she was batshit enough to do that, imagine what she could've done to you had you two stayed together! Okay? There's no way you could've known when you first started seeing her what kind of person she would turn out to be! So just try to realize that not everyone is like her. Most people aren't!"

Standing, he walked nearer to his sister and spat out, "She was almost twice my age; shouldn't that have been a pretty obvious red flag?! I was 18, Laura, she was 32! Why would she have ever wanted to go out with a teenager like me? I should've been able to see that, I should've been able to judge the situation and her better than I did. So what if it happens again, huh? What if I completely misread everything and he turns out to be completely deranged?! It's happened once, so why can't it happen again? And this time, what if more than just the house burns down? I can't risk it, Laura, I can't…"

By the time he'd talked himself dry, all three of them have tears in their eyes.

"Derek, sweetheart," Talia grasps his upper arms. "You have to forgive yourself some day. You deserve to be happy, and you're not! Yes, something worse could've happened, but it didn't! We love you so much, and we just want you to be happy…" She trailed off, crying openly. And if he felt bad before, he feels like absolute shit now.

"Mom, please don't cry, okay?" He wrapped her up in his arms and spoke into her hair. "I just need some more time, alright? I'll get there eventually, just not yet."

Laura joined in on the hug and Derek kept whispering, "I will, I promise, I will."

He doubted it, but if it made his mother stop crying, he'd say anything.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek was expecting to toss and turn all night, thinking about everything that he had talked about with his family, but the second his head hit the pillow, he was out cold. All of that emotional vulnerability probably took it out of him. He slept soundly through the night, not waking up until the morning light was streaming in through the window and someone was jumping on him and yelling in his ear quite obnoxiously.

"Deeeeereeeek! You have to wake up! It's my birthday, Derek! I'm eleven Derek! Derek, did you hear me? I'm eleven, so you have to get up! Derek! Wake! Up!"

Derek buried his face in the pillow and groaned loudly, mumbling complaints and hoping Cora would leave.

"Derek!"

"No."

"Derek!"

"No!"

"Deeeerrreeeee- _eeeee_!"

Cora squealed as Derek suddenly flipped over and threw her down onto the bed in his place. His fingers sought out her sides and started digging into them relentlessly as she screamed and laughed.

"No! No I'm sorry! Derek- Derek stop! Derek!"

He grinned down at his little sister, finally ceasing his torture. He laughed at her panting and the way she clutched her torso, moving out of his reach.

"I'm done, I swear."

Cora was obviously skeptical, but she moved back toward him nonetheless. When Derek opened his arms, she threw herself into them, hugging him as tight as her scrawny little arms could manage.

"Happy birthday, Cora," he said into her hair, hugging her back.

Muffled by his naked chest, she whispered, "Love you, Derek."

He smiled, nuzzling her hair. "Love you, too, Birthday Girl. How 'bout we go get some breakfast?"

Cora's head shot up and she grinned toothily at him. "Piggy back ride? Please, Der? It's my birthday, after all."

Derek never could say no to her.

Cora was opening her presents, receiving a journal for her to write her own stories in, a few movies about werewolves - her favorite mythological creature, a choose your own adventure book, and a documentary about wolves, among other things. Finally, the only gift left to open was Derek's, which was still taped together the way Stiles had done it, but tucked inside a gift bag and cushioned by a shit ton of tissue paper.

She removed the tissue carefully, yet still as quickly as humanly possible, trying to get to the present. When she finally got it in her lap, she first read the note on the back.

'Cora,

Happy birthday! I ran into someone in New York who makes very cool pictures. He made this one specially for you, and we both hope you love it.

Your 11th birthday is very special, so I knew your gift had to be just as special.

I love you, Cora,

~Derek'

She cut the tape handle and separated the ends of the painting, revealing the beautiful galaxy. She gaped at it, eyes and mouth wide open. Her fingertips skirted along the planet and the city with an awed gentleness, like she was holding something truly precious. When she had seemingly gotten her eyes' fill and looked up, her face expressed just how happy she was with the painting.

Carefully setting it to the side, Cora jumped up and ran to Derek, wrapping her arms around his torso.

"I love it! It's so pretty, Derek! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!" she exclaimed into his shirt.

Later, she put it up on the center of her wall, surrounded by other pieces of art. It stood out compared to many of the other pictures, being the only one of its kind.

"So, I start work at the hospital next week. Tonight I was planning on dropping off these treats for my soon-to-be coworkers. You should come with!" Carter was standing in front of the kitchen table, which was completely covered with baskets and plates of homemade cookies, muffins, brownies, rice krispies, and more.

It looked like diabetes.

"Um, I don't know, Carter-"

"No no no, you gotta go, Derek!"

Derek felt his eyebrows furrow. "Why?"

Carter hesitated before saying, "I might have already told some people you're coming…"

Of course he did. Derek sighed, "Really, Carter?"

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Erica and Boyd really miss you, bro. They're super excited to see you! C'mon, man, we don't have to stay for long. Just come say hi, help me carry some of this shit, say bye, and we can come home. Unless that's too much human interaction for you to take in one night."

Damn Derek's inability to deny his family anything. "Fine."

Carter grinned. "Awesome."

It appeared to be a slow night at the hospital. There weren't all that many cars in the parking lot and not many people walking the hallways. Whenever they would pass a worker, Carter would smile and offer them something out of one of the baskets. The person would always grin back and almost all of them accepted the treat. Carter led Derek to a desk surrounded by a few nurses who looked up when they noticed them approaching. Derek recognized Erica's wavy golden locks and Boyd's bulky frame immediately. Erica made a noise of glee and ran over to give him a bear hug, hindered by the baked goods in his arms. Boyd following at a slower pace, but still grinning nonetheless.

Once they had traded hugs and back slaps, Boyd said, "Long time, no see. How you been, Derek?"

"Okay. Nothing really special worth mentioning. How about you guys?"

Boyd and Erica shared a look and then Erica was shoving her hand in Derek's face, showing off a beautiful silver band around her ring finger.

"We're engaged! Boyd proposed just last week! The wedding's gonna be in March, and you are expected to be there. And no buts, Derek. We really, really want you there."

"Yeah, man, it would mean a lot to us," added Boyd.

And just like that, Derek was once again feeling guilty. These guys had used to be his best friends back in high school. Now, Derek was 26 and didn't really have any close friends at all. He had been living in New York for eight years now, and he still hadn't managed to get out enough to make some real friends. He hadn't even been on a date in that time, either. He had to admit, it was sort of pathetic, but without anyone there to push him to get out of his apartment, he most likely wasn't going to. That's just the way he was now, and he had accepted it a long time ago. Sure, being a damaged recluse was lonely, but it was also easy and safe, so he figured it was worth it.

"Of course I'll be there. Just message me the details and I'll make sure I'm here."

Erica hugged him again with a happy laugh before she spun on her heel, walked back to the group of people and grabbed a muffin. Boyd slapped his back with a smile and then joined her. He stole a bite of her muffin, wincing and chuckling when she shouted and slapped at him, telling him to get his own damn muffin.

They were sickeningly cute; Derek was only a little jealous.

Everyone seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the treats, sincerely thanking Carter and Derek for bringing them.

"Most people wouldn't think to do something so nice," said nurse Melissa McCall. "Things can get pretty depressing and dark around here, so it's nice to have something to lighten us up a bit."

"Speaking of dark and depressing," Erica cut in, "it's me for me to go check in on some of the long term care patients."

Melissa took the clipboard from Erica's hands. "You kids enjoy yourselves for a few minutes; you've all been working yourself to the bone for weeks. You deserve it. Who's the first?"

"Stilinski. Why are we even keeping him alive? He was a horrible parent. Beat the shit out of-"

"Erica," Melissa cut her off. "That boy loves his father, you know that. And we're not going to take him off the machines until he tells us to."

Erica frowned, looking sad and concerned as she said, "How the hell is he even paying for all of this? He's 23 for God's sake; he's too young to be worrying about shit like this!"

"I know, but he has been his whole life. We both know he won't give up on his father until there's no hope left. So just drop it, okay? He's got a good support system in Scott and Allison, they'll keep him on his feet. Don't worry."

Looking down, expression uncharacteristically pitiful, Erica whispered, "I just want him to be okay. You know, he used to be the only one who would talk to me before I met Boyd and Derek? He helped me with a seizure once. Gave me his jacket to hide the stain where I peed and broke the nose of that guy who was making fun of me. He was there for me, I just want to be there for him. But I don't know how."

A sad smile came over Melissa's lips and she placed her hands on the blonde's shoulders. "Financially, there's not really anything we can do for him. But how 'bout you give him a call sometime soon. He'd like that."

"Yeah," Boyd interjected. "He probably misses his Catwoman, after all." Then the three of them stood silently, lost in thought. Derek felt lost and confused the entire conversation, not knowing who or what they were talking about. But he stayed quiet, already feeling like he had stood in on a very private and intimate talk. Eventually, Melissa just sighed and patted the clipboard.

"I'm gonna go check on John now. You guys enjoy the sweets, I can guarantee they won't last long," she finished with a wink before turning and walking down the hallway.

Erica slowly turned to Boyd. "So, that was going to be the last thing I did tonight before I was done. I think I'm just gonna go call him now, you good?"

"Yeah, go ahead. Tell him I said hi and make sure he knows he's formally invited to the wedding. Scott and Allison, too."

"Well, of course. And Derek, make sure you come say bye before you take off again, okay?"

Derek nodded, accepting one last hug before Erica was off again.

When Derek and Carter got back home that night, Derek went straight to bed.

The next day was his last before he had to catch another plane and head home. He spent it playing games with his nieces and nephews and Cora, drinking up their presence before the next stretch of time away from them. The day had been blessedly peaceful, with Derek only leaving the house once to go visit Erica and Boyd before he left the next morning.

He was laying on the couch of the Hale Manor living room, watching some cooking show, when Peter entered the room. Derek could feel himself tense up at the man's presence, not knowing what to expect. But Peter simply sat down on the loveseat, not saying anything.

They kept the silence for almost twenty minutes when Peter finally broke.

"So what's the story behind this mysterious special someone you've met?"

When Derek didn't answer further than a muttered, "Nothing," Peter tutted, disappointed.

"Now, Derek, you can talk to me. And I think I deserve to know. For the safety of our family, and all that."

Derek clenched his eyes shut tightly. "Stop."

"Did you sleep with her?"

"Stop."

"Did you sleep with _him_?"

"Peter…"

Peter's eyes brightened considerably. "Oh, is that what this is all about? You know I don't have a problem with you liking dick. After all, it was quite clear after Kate that you weren't particularly talented with a vagina-"

"What the hell is going on?" Carter's furious voice rang out from the doorway. "Peter, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Oh, like I'm the only one that's worried, what with Derek's dating past, about a potential new lover. I'm just the only one saying anything!" Peter tried to reason. "He brought this on himself, didn't you Der-Bear? It was truly a miracle that you didn't date for this long, really. Who knows what could've happened with your horrible judgment."

Carter strode forward and fisted the collar of Peter's shirt, dragging him to his feet. "Shut the fuck up, Peter. What are you trying to do? It wasn't Derek's fault and you know it!"

Shoving Carter's hand away, Peter yelled back, "But it was! Derek was naive and gullible and stupid, and it almost got us all killed! I'm just trying to protect us! If this bitch he likes turns out to be batshit, I don't want us all dying this time just because Derek was gagging for it-"

His venomous words were abruptly cut off as Carter's fist connected forcefully with his mouth. Peter staggered back and fell down onto the loveseat, blood trickling out from under the hand covering his lips. He glared up at Carter, and then Derek, eyes narrowing before he pushed himself to his feet, stalking off down the hallway and up the stairs.

Carter looked after him with thinly veiled fury. Derek got to his feet, knees weak and breath coming in quick little puffs. He dug a hand into his eyes, trying to erase the image of Peter's rage-filled face.

Carter finally got a handle on himself and turned to his little brother, feeling almost tearful at the broken image he saw.

"Derek. You know none of that's-"

"No, he's right," Derek interrupted. "Don't worry about me, Carter. But, uh, I think I'm going to go pack my stuff. I have an early flight tomorrow." His voice was weak and lacking any emotion or inflection.

He walked past Carter, ignoring his outstretched hand, and locked himself in his bedroom.

Derek woke up with crusty eyes and stiff joints. He had slept horribly, kept up by memories and accusations and guilt. It was always so much worse after he spoke with Peter. After he got the reminder of what he had done. Nonetheless, he forced himself up and into the shower, attempting to wash away the previous night's grime. Peter was blessedly not present as Derek ate breakfast and said his goodbyes, where Carter kept throwing him worried looks. However, he did catch a glimpse of the man as he was walking to his car. Peter was standing near the side of the house, just watching as Derek loaded his bags into Laura's car. His lower lip was split and the area around it was swollen and tinted purple, which gave Derek an odd feeling of satisfaction, despite him not being the one to cause it.

The drive back to the airport was long and tense, Laura sensing something was off. Luckily, she didn't press, though it was obvious it took a lot of effort. She gave him an extra long and tight hug before he left, and he hugged back just as hard.

Derek thought a lot on the flight. He thought about what Peter had said and what Carter had said and that he had forgotten to figure out who Laura was suddenly dating.

The last thing that passed through his mind as he drifted off, no matter how hard he tried to push it away, was the phantom scent of paint fumes and wide, whiskey eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles honestly couldn't understand why the thought of a virtual stranger was able to help him sleep better, but he wasn't gonna complain. For the past few days, he had been averaging one and a half more hours of sleep than he was used to, which made a huge difference during the day. He had been feeling more energized and more optimistic about the future. It was like a flip had been switched and now Stiles was a bright little ball of positivity.

Okay… So _maybe_ that was a bit of an exaggeration, but whatever. He was as happy as could be in the situation that he was, which wasn't all that happy, but it was better than before. In short, Stiles wasn't feeling too bad that day. He had spent the night at Scott's last night and got to hang out with his favorite little girls for hours. The portable charger in his bag was fully charged along with his phone, and he had showered, gotten a good meal, and an amazing night's sleep. His plan was to spend the day making as many paintings as physically possible. He had bought some more paint, restocking his supply of paper as well. Things were shaping up.

Stiles knew that it would all probably come crashing down pretty quickly, as it always did, but for now he was willing to indulge in his good mood.

The day went on and the business was good. Like, _really_ good. Stiles was making painting after painting, barely even getting a break to eat the sandwich Allison had given him. By the time the last customer had paid, Stiles had made at least $200. It was dark and Stiles had just returned his stuff to Scott's and was lying on his bench when his phone rang. To say Stiles was startled would be like saying the ocean was damp. He hadn't gotten a call for weeks, and wasn't expecting one for another few weeks from Melissa. She called him roughly once a month to give him an update on his father. So if she was calling now, that meant something must have happened… Good or bad, he didn't know.

Stiles quickly sat up and pulled the crappy flip phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, and was shocked and confused to see the name 'Catwoman' flash at him. Hesitantly answering the phone, not sure why she would be calling, Stiles spoke.

"Erica?"

"Stiles! How are you? God, I miss you so much! How's Scott and Ally? How are the kids? Are you all okay? I haven't heard from you in forever!"

Stiles kept quiet while she rambled on, spouting off questions and exclamations left and right. He let her voice wash over him, happy that nothing had happened, and it calmed him. With his phone's plan, he had a very limited number of minutes, so he rarely talked to anyone. He couldn't afford to make useless calls.

But… It had been a good day. One call wasn't going to kill him, and he had really missed Erica.

She eventually had to take a breath, and Stiles took the opportunity to jump in.

"I'm fine; we're all fine. And we really miss you, too. What about you?"

"Oh, Stiles," Erica practically swooned down the line, "I am fabulous. Marvelous, superb, phenomenal, fantastic." She sighed happily and Stiles raised a confused and amused eyebrow, though he knew she couldn't see it.

"Oh?" he started. "And why are you so peppy? I'm not used to it, and, to be honest, it's sort of freaking me out."

There was a pause before Erica squealed, "Boyd and I are getting married!"

Stiles held the phone a few inches from his ear as she continued to make loud, excited noises that were threatening to burst his eardrums. Nonetheless, a huge grin plastered itself on Stiles' face, glad that his Catwoman was finally getting the life she had always wanted. She deserved it.

They talked for over an hour, her going over the wedding dates and that he 'better fucking be there or I swear to God I will come over there and cut off your foot, gag you with it, then cut off your fingers and stuff them in your nostrils until you suffocate.'

Stiles would have gone anyway, but he hastened to confirm after that.

Not that it was an easy decision. Obvious, yes; he knew there was no way he could _not_ go. But easy? Stiles hadn't been back to Beacon Hills in years. He didn't know how he was going to afford a plane ticket, or a tux, or where he was gonna stay. Not at his old house- no chance in hell. But he had some time to figure it out, so for now he'd just save up all of his money. Ration his food a bit more, make sure he stopped losing his water bottles so he wouldn't have to buy more, and make a shit ton more paintings. It wouldn't be easy, but it _would_ be worth it.

But all that's not even mentioning how simply being back there was going to affect him. He'd have to make sure to tell Scott and Allison to keep the fact that he's homeless to themselves. Would he be expected to bring a date? Because, haha, _no_. Would he be expected to stay in town longer than two or so days? Probably.

Would he be expected to visit his father in the hospital? Stiles sighed.

Of course he would.

But, like he said, it would be worth it. Hopefully.

Stiles and Erica eventually hung up and he finally lay down on the bench for the night. As he was drifting off, another thought shot through his dulling consciousness.

 _Oh shit, I'm gonna have to buy them a gift._

The next few days were exhausting. Well, everyday was always exhausting, but those few in particular. So much for being energized and positive. Stiles was starting the whole saving money process immediately, and, _damn_ , he was _hungry_. But he wasn't in danger of dying or anything, so whatever. He could deal with the constant pain of sharp hunger, because hopefully it wouldn't last long. Stiles made sure to drink plenty of water, though, because it took a bit of the edge off of it. He also moved his table a few blocks farther away from Scott's 'cause there were more people buying there. In short, he was making some serious cash. Virtually all of said cash was going straight into a tiny safe at Scott's, separated into piles for different things. A few bills for food, water, and basic hygiene supplies (he was homeless, not a slob). The biggest pile was for his father's hospital bills. There was a decent sized stack of bills for his art supplies. The newest pile was for everything related to the wedding in a few months: the plane ticket, the tux, the gift, etc.

Stiles was done working for the day and had just purchased a few more cans of paint when it happened.

He was walking to take his stuff to Scott's, backpack hanging off his shoulders, fold-out card table tucked under one arm, box of supplies under his other, and case of paint cans hanging from his hand. It was a huge fucking load, but he managed alright. The wind was blowing like crazy, and Stiles felt like his feet, fingers, and ass were about to freeze right off his body. Wondering how he was going to possibly survive the winter, Stiles decided to cut through some alleys, shortening his trek substantially.

That was his first mistake.

He was about halfway down the second alley of his shortcut when he noticed a group of three or four guys near the end of it. Judging by the putrid odor of nicotine, alcohol, and something even worse, they were having a grand ol' time. Stiles slowed down and considered turning back. But… He was almost there. And it's not like he looked fucking loaded or anything- he was carrying a table and a box for Christ's sake! He doubted they would even notice him, the state they were most likely in. He made up his mind and picked up his pace.

That was his second mistake.

The guys most definitely did notice him, and didn't hesitate to make it known.

"Oh hoo hoo, look what we got here," one of them sneered. He was wearing a brown jacket over a stained wife beater. Stiles could identify the other smell now; it was puke. Gross.

Another pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against and looked Stiles up and down, taking in the items in his possession. Stiles just kept walking. The guy stepped forward, right into his path, and Stiles stopped walking. He tried to get around the guy, but he just kept moving to continue blocking him.

"Come on, man, just get out of the way," he said, irritated.

"Nah, I don't think so." This guy didn't seem as drunk as the other two, but still not completely in control of his own mind, it seemed.

Stiles was starting to get scared. He knew firsthand how alcohol could push people to do things they wouldn't normally do. But he knew that showing weakness would only make things worse. They would see it and take advantage of it.

Stiles tried to walk past the guy again, but this time he was stopped by a hand on his chest, shoving him back a few feet. The table slipped from under his arm as he tried to regain his balance, and he dropped to one knee to pick it back up. Then two boots appeared right in front of him. Stiles looked up to see the guy who had blocked him looming over him, leering down.

"Ya sure look pretty on y'ur knees, don'cha?" he slurred. "How 'bout we keep ya there a bit?"

Stiles gripped the table and shot to his feet, trying to shove through the guys again. They still wouldn't budge. Stiles was pretty damn terrified now, but he still refused to let it show.

"Let me through."

"Or what?" asked Wife Beater. "What the fuck are you gonna do?" He pushed Stiles backwards, but he somehow managed to stay on his feet. Keeping the momentum of the shove, Stiles spun around and started running back down the alley.

That was his third mistake.

Normally, Stiles could probably have run circles around these douches, but it was sort of difficult running efficiently with all that stuff weighing him down and getting in the way.

He had just rounded the corner to the first alley when they caught up with him. Stiles went down, hard, and everything he had been holding tumbled out of his grasp. He pushed himself to his feet and started running again, figuring that as long as he got away with his backpack, he could replace the other stuff. 'Cause he sure as hell wasn't going to try to stop for it. He only made it a few steps before a hand grabbed hold of his bag and tugged. Stiles flew back to the ground again, this time on his side. A boot flew into Stiles' gut, forcing the air out of his lungs in a choked off grunt. His mouth opened and he gasped for breath, but his breaths were too short to help any; each deep breath hurt too sharply. Stiles felt the bag get ripped from his back and heard the zipper being pulled. Everything inside of it was then dumped onto his body and the guys pushed it all around with their feet.

The guy who hadn't done much yet bent down and swiped up a bundle of cash: Stiles' earnings for the day. "Check this out! He's got, like, fucking two hundred bucks or some shit here!"

Wife Beater placed a foot on Stiles' chest, keeping him grounded and gasping. "Hell yeah! Check the rest of his shit." He commanded with a vile grin.

The other two rifled through his supply box, dumping out the paper, leaving it torn and dirty on the damp alley ground. Then they reached for his case, unclasping the lid and peering inside.

"The fuck? What are ya, some graffiti thug?" one of them slurred.

"Nah," laughed Wife Beater. "Look at 'im. Ain't no thug, more like a bitch. Got a mouth like a lil bitch, don'cha? Bet ya can use it, too." They all guffawed down at Stiles, nudging him with their feet.

Stiles was shaking in terror.

The one with boots snatched up one of the paint cans and took off the lid, tossing it to the side. Stiles was then shoved up into a sitting position against a brick wall. He barely managed to turn his head, clamp shut his eyes, and hold his breath as a burst of paint hit the side of his head.

The laughter grew louder and more paint was sprayed all over his body. Stiles covered his face with his arms and waited for the assault to stop.

He should've just gone the other way.

The spraying stopped, but the laughter remained. Then, Stiles felt one of them bring a heel down on his foot, _hard_. He cried out into his arm, which was then ripped from his face and pinned to the wall behind him. Stiles hesitantly opened his eyes and saw Wife Beater was the one constricting his arms above his head. Boots was the one who had his foot crushed. The other guy then stepped between them and starting unbuttoning his pants.

Stiles felt his blood run cold. He thrashed and yelled as loud as he could before his nose was being plugged. Stiles gulped in as big of a breath as he could and then clamped his mouth shut. The guy stepped closer and kicked him in the stomach again, and Stiles' mouth flew open in something mixed between a gasp and a sob. A hand flew down and gripped his face, keeping his mouth wide open for the taking. Stiles kicked out with his free foot and managed to get Wife Beater's shin, but it was a pretty weak kick. Despite being able to breathe through his mouth, the gasps weren't helping Stiles and he quickly noticed black creeping into his vision.

Just before he passed out, the crushing pressure on his foot disappeared. And then his face and arms were being released as well. Stiles' head drooped down to his chest and his arms fell limply to the cold concrete beneath him. There was something going on just beyond his eyelids, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to open them enough to look. A few moments later and it was all quiet.

Then gentle hands were cupping his cheeks and tilting his head upward. A vaguely familiar voice, sounding urgent and worried, said, "Stiles?"

He forced his eyes into a squint and caught the glint of beautiful _greenhazelblue_ eyes.

Then everything went black.


	6. Chapter 6

Derek had been frustrated that his flight had been delayed a bit by weather, but now he thanked everything holy for that hour that put him walking down the streets of New York City, bag slung over his shoulder, at eleven that night instead of ten. If he hadn't, he would have never heard that shout. He would've never seen the scuffle going on at the end of the alley to his left. He would've never saved Stiles from God knows what those thugs had planned.

Despite his gratitude to Zeus for the storms, he was still _freaking the fuck out_.

Derek had just gotten dropped off from the taxi, as he had decided he felt like walking a bit after so long sitting down. Then he heard the pained yell and the laughing. He was wary at first, not sure if he should call the police or go check it out himself.

Then he smelled the paint fumes.

His feet were off and running down the alley before his head could catch up.

It could have been anyone. It wasn't like Stiles was the only artist who used spray paint in the city; there were more than Derek could count.

But… It could have been, and Derek didn't even register the possibility that it wasn't him, despite him wishing it was anyone else.

And it was.

Derek didn't try to stop himself, not that he thought he could have, from running up to the group of crude looking, foul smelling guys, grabbing one by the collar and throwing him several feet away. The guy landed on his shoulder with a painful thud, and his head snapped to the side and smacked against the concrete. He was knocked unconscious instantly.

The other two drunks noticed what had happened to their friend and immediately went on the defensive, releasing their holds on Stiles. One of them came at Derek, who took great pleasure in simply snapping his fist out, breaking the guy's nose on contact with ease. He stumbled back, turning to get the fuck out of dodge, but his foot got caught under Stiles leg and he went down, just barely stopping himself from hitting his nose a second time. Scrambling back to his feet, the guy took off down the alley without looking back. The last guy, who was gripping the wad of cash in his fist, didn't waste any time following him. Despite having no doubts he would be able to catch him, Derek was far more concerned with the man slumped nearly unconscious at his feet.

He hastily dropped to his knees, completely uncaring of the gross alley floor. Stiles groaned faintly, his head drifting to drop against his shoulder, but Derek's hands caught it. He cupped the slightly dirty cheeks gently, tilting his head back up straight.

"Stiles?" he asked, worried beyond comprehension. It was then that Stiles' eyes cleared a bit, looking at him with a strange softness before fluttering shut.

Derek patted his cheeks a few times, trying to coax him back awake, but to no avail.

"Shit," Derek muttered. He pulled out his phone and quickly brought up the contact for Isaac.

Isaac wasn't a friend, not really; Derek didn't have friends. But he was an acquaintance of sorts. Derek had helped him out a while back with a situation similar to this, except they managed to get the assailant arrested, unlike now. Basically, anytime one of them was in a jam, they would call the other. It was like a program where they just kept paying the other back. Luckily, Isaac worked as a bartender not _too_ awfully far away and was able to get another guy there to cover his last half hour of work. He told Derek he would be there in fifteen minutes tops. Derek just told him to take the stuff in the alley back to his apartment and that he would explain later. Then he wrapped Stiles in his jacket, and then hailed a taxi, which in itself took a good five minutes. The cab driver agreed to wait on the street for him and Derek ran back down the alley to get Stiles. He slipped one arm under his armpits and the other he hooked under his knees, hefting him up bridal style.

Derek immediately noticed that this was _ridiculously_ easy. A man of Stiles' age and height should definitely not be that light. Carrying the limp body back to the taxi, Derek frowned and his mind raced. The driver gave Stiles' unconscious, paint-covered body a look of mixed concern and disdain, probably already lamenting his semi-clean backseat.

Derek sighed and said, "I'll pay extra."

The man's eyes lit up and he nodded. Once Derek had gotten the both of them situated in the backseat, Stiles laying across the seats with his head cradled in Derek's lap, he told the cabbie his address. The trip didn't take too long and Derek held true to his promise of paying extra, much to the cabbie's delight. Taking hold of Stiles' body once more, he made his way up to his apartment. It was troublesome, unlocking the door while holding a full-grown human being in his arms, but he managed. The stairs presented a challenge a bit more daunting. Derek almost dropped Stiles only once, and he caught him in time, so he counted it as a success. One would think that with all the money Derek and his family had, he'd have an apartment building with an elevator.

Inside Derek's apartment, which was blessedly tidy, Stiles was taken to the second bedroom and laid down gently on the bed. Derek then proceeded to carefully pull off his ratty sneakers, which he tossed behind him, and peel the frankly awful smelling socks from his feet. They each had large holes in the heel and the big toe.

He tossed those in the trash bin.

Looking back at Stiles, Derek noticed the start of what would probably be a quite impressive bruise on the top of his foot, where one of those guys had been stepping on it. It was already a little swollen, too, and Derek was willing to bet he would have a limp for a week, at the least.

Just as he was about to start panicking over what he should do, Derek's phone dinged in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Isaac's name along with a message stating he was there and to 'let him the fuck in and explain exactly what the fuck was going on. Please.'

With one last lingering look at Stiles' limp form, Derek jogged back down the stairs and opened the door for Isaac. Together they carried everything up to the apartment, where the set it in the living room for the time being. Derek then turned to thank Isaac for the help and tell him he could leave, only Isaac wasn't behind him anymore.

"Isaac?" he called out.

"Shit, man," came his voice from the guest room. "What the hell happened to him?"

Inside the room, Isaac was looking down at the paint-covered body in faintly concealed horror.

"And his foot! Oh god, that's gross. How exactly did you happen upon this? Who did it?"

Derek joined him next to the bed, sighing in frustration. "Some dicks drunk off their asses in that alley. They had him pinned unconscious against the wall and it looked like… Well, it's a good thing i got there when I did."

Isaac's eyes widened under his golden curls, making him appear deceptively innocent, as he realized what Derek was implying. "Fuck…" he whispered sympathetically. "Poor guy."

They stood there in silence for a moment, listening to Stiles' labored breathing, and then Isaac was reaching down and unzipping his jacket. Derek's hand shot out and gripped his wrist in the blink of an eye.

"What are you doing?"

Isaac rolled his eyes and yanked his arm out of Derek's reach. "Chill out, man, we've gotta make sure he's alright. What if he's injured and we let it go untreated?" he asked, gesturing to the unconscious body. "How 'bout you go grab some rags and a bucket of warm, soapy water. Then we can get this shit off of him before it gets too crusty. Plus, it's stinking up your apartment."

Derek shot him a raised eyebrow, but Isaac just rolled his eyes again and shoved at his shoulder, saying, "Just go. Don't worry; I won't hurt you little charity case."

"Stiles isn't a fucking charity case," he growled, suddenly feeling defensive.

Isaac looked confused. "Stiles? What the fuck is that?"

"Stiles," Derek huffed, "is his name. And he's not a charity case."

"I thought he was unconscious when you got there?"

"Just about. Why does that matter?"

"How do you know his name's Stiles?"

Derek was growing irrationally irritated now. He knew that Isaac didn't know that he and Stiles had met before, but that didn't seem to matter to his patience. Maybe it had something to do with the injured guy on his bed who had been like a parasite in Derek's brain ever since he saw him.

"Because," Derek began, trying really hard to be patient, "I know him. His name is Stiles, okay?"

"Well why the fuck didn't you say that ten minutes ago? Don't get all bitchy with me just because you didn't give me all the information. Goddamn, I guess now I know why you're so worked up over some homeless guy. I had been wondering." Isaac looked back down at Stiles with a shake of his head and a sigh.

Derek lifted his gaze to Isaac. "Why do you assume he's homeless?"

Scoffing, Isaac gestured broadly in the direction of the living room. "Did you see all the crap he had with him? No one just carries around all that stuff."

"He's a street artist. He has to carry around all of that stuff," Derek argued.

"Oh, so the many street artists you've apparently met carry around backpacks of clothes, food, water, toothbrushes, and wear a shit ton of layers, despite all of them being dirty and covered in holes? Oh, I didn't realize. You're right; totally not homeless."

Derek stared at Isaac for a moment, not quite sure what to say, until he realized…

"You went through his bag?"

He shrugged, not looking ashamed in the slightest. "You just told me to pick up his shit, nothing else. I was curious, and bored on the ride over."

"Whatever, I guess it doesn't matter anymore," Derek sighed.

It was quiet for another beat and then Derek spoke again.

"You really think he's home-"

"Oh my god, yes! He's fucking homeless!" Isaac threw his hands up into the air and then brought them down to shove at Derek. "Now go get the stuff to clean him up. And your first aid kit."

Derek reluctantly left Isaac with Stiles' vulnerably still body and went to do as he was told. When he came back, rags, water, and kit in hand, Isaac had stripped Stiles down to his last layers: a pair of loose blue boxers and a t-shirt with a picture of Chewbacca smoking that said "Chewbacco."

Derek initially felt the urge to snort at that, and then Isaac carefully lifted Stiles and pulled said shirt off.

The laugh died in his mouth and crawled back down his throat, choking him.

Stiles had lean and subtle muscle definition in his arms, chest, and abdomen, but that's not what Derek was looking at. He was looking at the outline of each of Stiles' ribs.

He was so damn _thin_. It looked as if he had once been more of a lithe thin, but now he just looked sickly. Gaunt. And now that he had seen just how skinny Stiles was, he was noticing it more in his cheeks and his legs as well.

 _That explains why he was so light_ , thought Derek.

That wasn't it, though. Stiles' stomach was a mess of faint blue and purple, all tainted by a dark yellow that showed the first stages of what was bound to be one hell of a bruise. It was extremely fresh looking, and Derek knew that it had to have been from those guys in the alley.

And if that wasn't enough of a cause for concern, the guy was also mottled with small, crude looking scars. They were everywhere, and most of them looked pretty old. It made Derek extremely curious, in the most morbid of ways.

He shook himself out of it and reached for the supplies, tossed Isaac a rag, and then they went to work at trying to scrub the paint off of his face and neck. They gave up on it pretty quickly when it became apparent that he would probably need a bath or shower, or both, before he would be able to get most of it, especially the green, blue, and red that had dried into his brown hair.

Isaac took over with the obvious injuries, rubbing something onto the bruises and then wrapping bandages snuggly around his torso with Derek only helping to maneuver the young man's body. He finished in about ten minutes, which was also when Stiles started making muffled groaning noises under his breath.

Derek and Isaac leaned in close and Stiles' moans got stronger. His eyes squinted open, but quickly slammed shut again at the bright light of the room. His next moan was cut off by a sharp yelp as his hands clutched at his stomach in pain.

"Stiles… Hey, Stiles." Derek placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, trying to comfort him or reassure him or something.

"Sss… Sco- ott?" he gasped out between groans and heavy breaths.

"No, it's Derek."

Stiles' eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Derek?" he whispered.

Derek nodded, even though Stiles' eyes were still closed, and squeezed his shoulder again. "Yeah, Derek. Remember me? You sold me a painting a little while back. I found you earlier tonight, and you're looking pretty rough. Do you remember what happened?"

"Goin'... back to S-Scott's. Where, where's Scott?"

"He's not here. Do you have his phone number so we can call him and get him over here?" asked Isaac.

Stiles breathing started to get harsher and quicker, and he gasped out, "Scott? Scott! Where's Scott? I need Scott."

Derek and Isaac gently pulled Stiles into a sitting position, but he was on the verge of hyperventilating and didn't seem to be slowing down.

"I need Scott. I- I need… need Sc… Scott."

And with that he passed out again.

Leaving Derek to lay Stiles back down, he left the room and promptly came back holding the ratty backpack. He unzipped it and dumped everything out onto the floor, rifling through it until he found a cheap flip phone that flashed ' _8 missed calls_ ' across the screen. Isaac flipped it open and said, "They're all from Scott," and then pressed to call back.

It only took a second before Derek could hear a frantic voice on the other end of the line yelling for Stiles.

"Are you Scott?... I'm Isaac, and Stiles is with me and my friend right now… No, he found him getting mugged in an alley. We brought him and his things back to his apartment….. He's unconscious right now, but he was asking for you earlier….. Well, what do you want us to do with him?... Five days?... Fine, yes, we will….. Okay… Yes, we'll call back when he's awake… Alright." Isaac hung up and looked over at Derek. "He said they, whoever 'they' is, took a plane this morning out west and can't get back for another five days. Apparently Stiles had a spare key and was supposed to call when he got to Scott's place. He asked if we could watch him until they get back. I couldn't say no."

"Okay, okay. It's fine. I would've said yes, too."

"So…" began Isaac. "What do we do?"

Derek sighed. "You can go home. I know you've probably got shit to do tomorrow, and all I've got to do is write a few more chapters." Isaac looked like he was about to protest, but Derek cut him off. "Just go home, alright? You've already helped more than I can thank you for. I've got this for now, don't worry about it. I'll call if I need help."

Isaac looked torn, but he eventually nodded his head and dropped Stiles' phone to the bed.

"Alright. Call me, seriously."

Derek nodded. "I will."

A few minutes later, Derek was alone with Stiles and had no clue what he was supposed to do. He settled on grabbing some clean clothes, which he slid onto Stiles, and then filling a glass of water and making a sandwich, which he laid on the bedside table along with some over-the-counter painkillers. After debating whether or not it was a good idea, Derek decided 'fuck it' and sat on the carpet next to the bed, against the wall.

He watched Stiles' chest rise and fall steadily for fifteen or so minutes before he vaguely remembered his head bobbing a few times before it settled against his chest and he drifted to sleep.

Hours later, he woke to Stiles yelling.


	7. Chapter 7

_Fingers were grabbing at him, tearing at his clothes and clawing at his skin. Forceful hands were gripping at his limbs, pulling them apart, restraining him, holding him down. Laughs and whispers echoed around him. They were taunting him, threatening him, daring him to do something._

 _Stiles yelled, he yelled 'til his voice was hoarse. He yelled for Scott, yelled for Allison, yelled for anybody. He whispered for his father, please, please help him._

 _But nobody came._

 _His yells devolved into choked off pleas for mercy, and the laughing grew louder._

 _He felt someone tugging at his pants, trying to lift his shirt, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. So he yelled again, this time louder. He yelled for anyone, desperate for someone to just hear him and help him._

 _Then, everything was quiet._

 _The hands had left his body, the slurs had gone silent, his throat had given out._

 _A hand shook his shoulder, cupped his cheek, pushed hair off his sweaty forehead. He tried to look at whoever it was, but couldn't see anything but murky, swirling darkness._

 _Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet._

" _Stiles."_

 _That was his name, wasn't it?_

" _Stiles, wake up, it's okay, just open your eyes."_

 _He hadn't realized they were closed; he thought everything else was just dark._

" _Wake up, Stiles."_

 _He didn't want to, though. It was nice, wherever he was. The darkness was peaceful and the quiet calmed him._

" _C'mon, open your eyes."_

 _But that voice… It was familiar, and he felt oddly compelled to follow it._

" _Open your eyes, Stiles."_

 _Maybe he could just see who it was._

" _Stiles…."_

 _Just a quick peek._

Stiles' eyes snapped open as he woke with a quiet gasp. He immediately started coughing, and it felt like his throat was made of sandpaper, dry and rough.

A large, warm hand worked its way under his body and planted itself against his back, helping to push him into a sitting position. Then a glass of water was shoved into his face. Stiles took it and gulped down mouthful after mouthful until there was no more. Normally, he definitely would never have taken a drink from a stranger, especially with the whole _not knowing where the fuck he was_ thing he had going on, but he figured whatever could _possibly_ be in the glass was better than almost certainly hacking up his lungs.

Once the spasms in his throat had finally stopped, Stiles took in the state he was in.

The first thing he noticed was the pain. And while it certainly wasn't the worst he had ever felt, it was pretty damn bad. The stabbing ache in his torso hurt the worst, but Stiles could instantly determine that whatever was wrong with his foot was bound to cause him the most trouble.

Stiles lifted a hand to his stomach and felt the fabric of an ace bandage under his fingertips. The hand on his back stroked up and down in a soothing motion and Stiles snapped his gaze up to the body squatting down next to him. The room was dim and it was hard to make out the person's face, but he could see the glint in their eyes.

Their seemingly kaleidoscope eyes that were staring down at him with worry. He _knew_ those eyes; he had certainly dreamed about them enough to be etched into his memory.

"...Derek?"

And now that he had identified the man, he could recognize the familiar stubble, muscular frame, and strong hands.

But… Why was he with Derek?

Before his brain could start firing out worst case scenarios, Derek spoke.

"Yeah, it's me. How're you feeling?"

"Like a tube of toothpaste that's been steamrolled. What the fuck happened to me?"

"You don't remember?" Derek was sounding increasingly concerned.

Stiles' brow furrowed as he tried to recall. What had he been doing last night?

"I found you in an alley. You were getting… mugged by some guys. I had to bring you back here, and your stuff is here, too."

Stiles remembered making a killing that day. He had been heading back to Scott's for the night, planning on staying there while they were gone. When they had told him they were going to go back to Beacon Hills for a few days to visit Melissa, he had adamantly declined their offer to take him with them. He had rationalized that he was going down in a few months for the wedding anyway. They thankfully hadn't pushed, but had insisted that he stay at their place while they were gone.

So he was walking back and… Right! He took a shortcut through some alleys, ran into the drunk group of guys, and then proceeded to get his ass beat. Great.

"Did they take anything? They didn't get my key, did they?"

"No, they didn't take your key. But…"

"What?" Stiles asked. "What did they take?"

Derek sighed. "They took a bunch of money. I don't know how much, but one of them got away with a wad of it."

Stiles felt his words like a punch in the gut. Of fucking course. Because why should he ever have a really good day? Why should he get to keep what was rightfully his? Oh yeah, 'cause he was apparently the universe's punching bag.

"Two hundred fucking bucks, probably gonna be wasted on booze and drugs and chicks.." Stiles muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was so done with life treating him like shit; it was seriously getting old.

"Two hundred dollars? Was that just from selling your paintings yesterday?"

"Yeah. God, it had been such a good day, too. Not too freezing, nice big crowd, going over to Scott's… Oh shit." Stiles suddenly remembered his promise to call Scott as soon as he was safe back in their apartment. "Where's my phone? Fuck, he's gonna be pissed."

Stiles tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand up, but the second he put pressure on his hurt foot he hissed and pulled it back up off the ground.

Hands were on him again and Stiles started to jerk away, but then Derek's voice came through and he remembered he wasn't in danger anymore.

"I'd take it easy; your foot's pretty swollen. And Scott called earlier. He asked us to keep an eye on you until they get back. Are 'they' your roommates?"

"Uh, sure, yeah. They're my roommates." Stiles maybe didn't want Derek to know he was some homeless freak, so what was a little white lie? "They went out west to visit some family and should be back in less than a week. And it's okay, I'll be fine on my own. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm so thankful for everything you've done to help. Seriously, you literally saved my ass, and that's more than most people 'round here would've done. But I don't wanna invade your life, man. It's not fair that after all you did you're stuck with me for a week, like, what kind of thanks is that? Trust me, I wouldn't ever force anyone else to have to live with me 'cause I've been told many times it's practically unbearable, and I'd probably just annoy you 'cause I wouldn't have anything to do, and you'd want me gone pretty quick, and I really don't need anyone to watch me; Scott was just being overprotective, and I think they have groceries and stuff. I mean we! I'm pretty sure _we_ have groceries and stuff, so I should be fine on my own, really."

Nailed it.

Derek obviously didn't think so, if his raised eyebrow was any indication.

"Stiles, you're not annoying. And Scott sounded pretty adamant about you staying here. If not for yourself, stay at least for his peace of mind. And… I wouldn't mind you staying either, you know."

That was sort of a shock to Stiles' system. Hot, muscular, savior guy wanted to spend time with black 'n blue, scrawny, asshole guy? That wasn't something that happened everyday.

Stiles sighed out, "Okay," and ran a hand through his hair. Or, he tried to.

"Gah, the fuck?" He pulled it back down in front of his face and blanched when he didn't see his usual pasty skin. Instead, he saw what first appeared to be blood, until he noticed the color peeling off his skin in places. So paint. Which meant…

"Oh, fuck no! The fuckers took my paint, too?! That shit may not cost a ton, but it adds up pretty damn quickly when you have to buy it every other day!"

"Um, actually, they didn't take it. They sprayed you all over with it, but there's still a decent amount left. It'll be a bitch to get out of your hair, though, and we barely managed to get any off of you earlier." Derek still had a hand steadily running up and down his back, releasing the tension in his frame bit by bit.

Then Stiles realized, "You said 'we'. Someone else here?"

"Not right now," he replied. "Isaac helped out by bringing all your stuff over here, and then he wrapped you up, 'cause he's better at that kind of thing. He might drop in sometime while you're here, though, and you can meet him then."

Feeling a weird nervousness that he couldn't explain, Stiles said nonchalantly, "Oh, cool. He your boyfriend?"

"No, definitely not," Derek rushed to get out.

Stiles was willing to admit to himself- not to Derek, god no- that he was just fishing for information now. Not that he was going to do anything with it, but he felt like he had to know.

"Of course, you're obviously straight, right?"

Derek shook his head, looking equal parts uncomfortable, confused, and embarrassed. Good going, Stiles. "No, um, I'm pan, actually. I do tend to like guys more, though," he stuttered out.

"Good," Stiles blurted without thinking, then backtracked. "I mean, not like _good_. Well, good for you, and for the male and non-binary population, but that's objectively speaking, obviously. It's great that you know who you are, 'cause a lot of people don't, you know? And that's not a bad thing I guess, just stressful and confusing, but it's fine if you're still finding yourself. That's not to say sexuality crises are fun, 'cause they're not, especially in high school. Really, who wants to find out they're gay in high school: land of the human vultures? Not that anything's wrong with being gay! I mean, I'm gay, but it's cool that you're not gay, you know? Well, I hope you're gay, like happy, but uh, not necessarily in the sexuality way. Not that that really matters anyway, 'cause what about sexuality should actually set us apart, and, you know what, can I just use your shower, please?"

Ears red, brow furrowed, and eyes dazed like his brain had just been steamrolled, which, okay, close enough, Derek nodded and stood up. He showed Stiles to the bathroom (which he also had to help him limp his way to) and got him a towel and a clean pair of clothes, which Stiles protested at first, insisting that he had his own, but reluctantly accepted when Derek didn't budge.

If Stiles hadn't been years beyond caring about what people thought of his appearance, he might've been super self-conscious of his scars. Luckily, he wasn't. No, instead he was self-conscious about his gangliness, especially next to a built guy like Derek.

Alone in the bathroom, he made quick work of stripping out of his boxers and bandages before very carefully stepping into the shower once it was warm enough (not that he had very high standards). The water felt amazing as it beat down onto his back, but not so great on his front side. Stiles hissed in pain when the little bullets of water pummeled his extremely tender (and extremely ugly) bruises. But he dealt with it, because the pain was worth it and nothing compared to how they had gotten there in the first place. It was completely worth it to get the grime off his skin.

Now the paint… That was a different story. He was honestly considering just leaving it there.

Stiles' face felt like it had been scrubbed raw by the time he gave up on it. And his _hair_ , God. He honestly might just have to temporarily revisit his high school buzzcut days, and hadn't _those_ been fabulous.

After getting as much out as he could, Stiles _very_ cautiously stepped out of the shower, holding onto the toilet and curtain rod for support. One look in the mirror showed Stiles just how utterly horrifying he appeared. For one, the paint hadn't come out nearly as much as he had been hoping. Secondly, his stomach was just _mottled_ with dark purple and blue. Thirdly, said bruising drew more attention to Stiles' torso, which was currently thinner than it had probably ever been.

Shaking his head of those thoughts, Stiles ran the towel across his head, drying his colorful hair as much as he could. Then, with a plentitude of hisses and curses and all around _pain_ , he managed to tug on the borrowed boxers and baggy sweatpants. Once he had, Stiles let out a sigh of relief and reached for the ace bandage that had been discarded by the sink.

It had only gotten wrapped around his belly once when a knock came at the door, followed by, "Hey, I've got something for your bruises if you're ready."

"Uh, yeah, come on in," he replied.

Derek opened the door and entered the bathroom, carrying a tube of something in one hand.

"What's that?" Stiles inquired.

Holding the label up so Stiles could see it, Derek said, "It's Arnica gel. I've never had to use it, but my sister left this here a few months ago after she sprained her wrist. She said it worked wonders on the pain. You can use it."

Stiles reached out and took the tube, looking it over with a critical eye. "This looks expensive. Are you sure you wanna waste it on some guy you barely know?"

"It was only ten or so dollars. And giving it to you wouldn't be a waste. I don't really get hurt often, so it'd be a _real_ waste if I left it sitting in my first aid kit for the next few years. Don't take it if you don't want it, but you should at least try some."

Shrugging lightly, Stiles uncapped the tube and squeezed a bit onto his finger. It didn't smell bad, but looked sort of gross. The yellowish gel was cool to the touch and felt good on his skin, even as his bruises twinged under his fingertips.

Derek stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway the whole time Stiles was slathering the medicine onto his bruises, not saying anything. It was sort of putting Stiles off, but he refused to let that show. Once he was finished with his torso, he looked down to his almost black foot in despair. How the hell was he supposed to bend down long enough to rub in the gel without screaming, crying, or passing out first?

After contemplating his only option of just enduring the pain, he decided to just leave it and deal with it later when his torso didn't hurt so much.

The cap was halfway back on the tube when Derek noticed and said, "You didn't put it on your foot."

"Oh, yeah. Well, since I can't really bend down right now, I was just gonna… not. At least until I could without bawling like a baby," Stiles said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Derek's ears turned curiously pink as he offered, "Well, I could do it for you, if you want…?"

Eyes wide, Stiles asked, "You'd seriously do that? I don't know, man, my feet are probably pretty gnarly; I don't know if you wanna risk it."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Gnarly? I wasn't aware people still even used that word. Also, you just took a shower, so they can't be that bad."

In all honesty, Stiles' feet were pretty gross. Not normally in a dirty way, but more in a general appearance way. For one, they were long and thin, sort of like the rest of him. They also had a few tiny scars on the bottom, near his toes, from all those years ago on the night he first met the stranger. The shards of glass that his feet had been dragged through left little marks that would be there for the rest of his life. And his heels and the balls of his feet were very calloused from a lot of running outdoors without shoes in his lifetime.

Plus… Feet. They were gross on principle, right?

But Derek didn't mind, or at least didn't seem to as he dropped to his knees.

Stiles held back a choke and almost gagged on his own tongue. Derek either didn't notice it was benevolently ignoring his reaction and grabbed the tube from Stiles' lowered hand. He applied a generous amount to his fingers, rubbing it a little between his thumb and forefinger, and Stiles had to look away. The position was too incriminating, and damn, did Stiles have some weird, previously undiscovered foot fetish? Because the sensation of Derek massaging the gel into his skin, despite it smarting a bit, was giving him some weird feelings.

Well, maybe it was more just Derek in general that was giving him the weird feelings. Was this some sort of reverse Stockholm Syndrome? Because Derek had saved him or some shit like that?

Well, Stiles had to admit that he had been thinking of Derek before this happened, ever since they met.

Either way, the way Derek's eyes just flicked up to meet Stiles' through his eyelashes definitely wasn't helping anything.

The process itself was quite innocent. Just one guy rubbing gel into the foot of another guy. Nothing weird- typical bro bonding time.

At least, that's was Stiles told himself.

Derek finished up and got back to his feet, quickly taking a step back after realizing how close they were standing.

Clearing his throat, Derek gestured to Stiles' head. "Looks like you didn't fair much better than us."

"Right, about that. You wouldn't happen to have an mayonnaise, would you?"

"This is probably one of the weirdest things I've ever witnessed," Derek commented as he watched Stiles lather his hair in mayo. "Also one of the grossest."

"Really?" Stiles' voice was muffled from where his head was bent upside down over some paper towels on Derek's kitchen table. "This is totally vanilla for me. You shoulda seen the kind of weird shit I got up to back in high school."

"Yeah?" Derek asked, looking warily intrigued. "Like what?"

"For our senior prank, our class released three chickens loose in the school. They were labeled 1, 2, and 4. The staff caught all three of them, but kept looking for _days_ for chicken #3. It was pretty good, but a bit tame in my opinion. So I decided to go with something a bit more… up my alley. I got help from one of my best friends, Lydia, who is genius smart. What we did was actually super basic. One of the easiest experiments in the science world, if you ask me- but fun and effective." Stiles lifted his head from where it had been hanging and wiped his hands off on some paper towel that Derek handed to him. Then, leaving the mayo in his hair, he continued, "We broke into the chemistry lab and got a bunch of huge flasks, which we then filled part way with a pretty highly concentrated hydrogen peroxide. Then we added some dish soap and a crap ton of black and green food coloring. We covered up the vents on the floor of my coach's office and put one of the flasks there. Then another in the chemistry classroom, a few in the cafeteria, and one in the Dean's office. Of course, we did this stealthily and with the help of our partners in crime. Then, all at once during lunch, we each put a catalyst that Lyds provided in each of the flasks. Of course, they all exploded in a burst of gross looking foam that went everywhere, but we made sure it was far enough away from people so that it wouldn't touch them. When Coach, Mr. Douchenozzle, and the Dean got back into their offices, I swear you could hear their yelling from everywhere in the building. Well, mostly Coach. He was screaming about 'poisonous bubble mold sent by the government through the vents to take him out.' It was hilarious, and people in the cafeteria were freaking out, and then laughing and taking pictures." Stiles smiled, remembering the chaos they had stirred up with just a little science experiment. "It took almost an hour to convince Coach that the government wasn't trying to kill him and that it had just been us. He had seriously worked himself into a frenzy; I felt sorta bad for it, actually. I think he even cried a bit."

Stiles looked over at Derek, who was watching him and listening attentively with an amused crinkle to his eyes. "I bet that went down really well with your teachers and parents," he commented.

"Oh, we got so much shit. It was absolute _hell_ for freaking _months_ after. We had to clean it all up, and then the rest of the whole freaking school. Detention until the end of the year, which was thankfully only about two weeks. Coach tried to get us to pay a huge fee, stating that it would cover his therapy costs. And my dad was beyond pissed. It was pretty rough for a while after between us, but then I moved out here and things went back to normal, so. No real harm."

Derek had a strange look on his face, like he was thinking, before it was gone with a quick shake of his head. "For some reason, nothing you just told me surprises me in the slightest. Although, it's hard to really listen to you tell a story when you have a head covered in mayonnaise, I have to admit."

Being the mature adult he was, Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek.

"Speaking of, I can probably take this out now. Umm… you wouldn't happen to have a fine-tooth comb, would you? I swear I'll wash it really well after I'm done with it."

He did have a fine-tooth comb. He had about _six_ , in fact, which delighted Stiles to no end. He didn't know why Derek had so many combs, but looking at his perfectly shaped hair, Stiles figured he put them to good use.

Finally, the paint would come out. Stiles ran one of the combs Derek lent him through his dark locks and watched with relief as the colors slowly came out with the mayo.

Derek shook his head in wonder. "How does that even work?"

Shrugging, Stiles answered, "Something in the mayo just gets between the paint and the strand of hair, which lets it slide off easily. I don't remember when I found it out, but it's been a serious lifesaver for years now."

It was past noon by that point, and Stiles was starting to get hungry. Like, _really_ hungry. But he wasn't planning on saying anything about it to Derek. Derek, who had done so much for him already without any judgment, annoyance, regret, or _anything_ other than kindness and generosity. He didn't want to push his luck and ask for much more, partly because Stiles just didn't like depending on people too much in general, but also because he didn't want to annoy Derek, or make Derek resent him in someway.

This was new, whatever it was that was going on. This… camaraderie with Derek. The talking, the joking, the helping. It was new, and it was nice. And Stiles really found himself wanting it to last longer than the five days he had been given.


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles was so obviously trying to hide his hunger. Derek didn't know _why_ , but he definitely heard his stomach growling something fierce. He had just left the room to go wash his hair once again, getting rid of the mayonnaise, and Derek decided to cook something.

Which would've been a hell of a lot easier if he had gone to the store for actual groceries sometime in the last month. He hadn't realized just how much take-out he'd been consuming lately. Luckily, his hours at the gym made up for it.

As Derek rummaged around his cupboards for something to make, he thought about something else that was weird. Stiles' senior prank story had given him a weird sense of deja vu; he could've _sworn_ he'd heard that story before. Maybe Laura or Erica had done something similar for their prank? He wasn't sure, but Derek vaguely felt like he was missing something.

There was also the fact that Stiles was lying to him about having roommates, but Derek could definitely understand why someone wouldn't want to advertise the fact that they were homeless. Derek didn't want to make Stiles uncomfortable, so he figured he'd pretend he didn't know to prevent Stiles from being embarrassed. He had the feeling that Stiles definitely would _not_ appreciate that- Derek sparing his feelings- but he didn't want to just come out and say, 'Hey, by the way, I totally know that you were lying and that you live in the streets.' 'Cause that would go over so well.

The sound of the shower cut off and Derek was scrambling for something, anything, to cook. He finally managed to gather everything he needed to make scrambled eggs and proceeded to crack about half the carton into a big pan, which he put on the stove. Stiles limped into the kitchen, hair damp, just as Derek was finishing mixing in the garlic salt and bacon bits, before letting it sit for a moment.

Stiles inhaled deeply, slowly as to not annoy his tender stomach, and sighed out. Derek tried not to preen at the way he closed his eyes and just breathed in the delicious scent of cooked eggs, but his success was debateable. Once they were cooked to perfection, Derek split the eggs into two plates and set the one with a bit more in front of Stiles, who looked at it with wide eyes.

"It's not much, but I hope it's okay," said Derek.

Viciously shaking his head, but then quickly changing it to a bobbing nod, Stiles stammered out, "No, no, it's- I mean yes, it looks fantastic, but it's not.. not much. It's much- it's very much.. much! Uh… What I mean is, it's not not much. Shit." Stiles rubbed his hand across his hair, looking adorably flustered, and Derek stared on with a light fluttering in his chest. "It's perfect, is what I mean. Thank you."

Derek's small smile grows into a bashful grin and he ducks his head. "Of course. It's no problem, Stiles, really."

"No, but it is," Stiles interjects. Derek looks up again to see molten eyes looking right into his, packing an intense heat that sent an unnoticeable shudder through Derek's shoulders and down his spine. "You don't have to give me food or a bed or… fucking Arnica gel, but you are. And… I'm not sure why, but I just wanted to thank you. So, can you please just drop the modest act and accept my goddamn gratitude?"

Derek could feel it and, _dammit_ , there went his blush again. He felt the heat on the tips of his ears- which has been happening all fucking day- and he resisted the urge to cover them up. He's just not used to such… _sincerity_. And coming from the person who's been exclusively starring in his fantasies lately just made him feel all the more overwhelmed. And happy. So damn happy to have touched Stiles so deeply.

Kate had never made him feel that way.

 _Shit,_ Derek thought. As his brain was whirring with thoughts of _**WARNING. WARNING. DO NOT ENGAGE. DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE ENGAGE,**_ Derek stumbled for a response that didn't betray his inner turmoil.

"You're.. Welcome…"

 _Fuck._

 _Okay, Derek. Let's try this again._

"You don't deserve what they were doing to you." _Okay, good start._ "I'm helping you because it's what you _actually_ deserve." _Yes, good, keep it going._ "Any decent human being should realize that." _Now finish strong._ "And I would hate myself if I let anything happen to you." _No, wait, fuck, too strong. Shit, that sounds creepy. Okay, just fix it._

"Um, I mean, if I let something like that happen to someone who didn't deserve it. Or someone who did deserve it! 'Cause no one really deserves that. Well, some people maybe, but I wouldn't know if they did or not, so I'd have to assume they didn't and help them anyway."

 _Fucking hell._

The apartment was silent as Derek fixed his eyes on the table, avoiding the eyes that he could feel were fixed on him. The awkward tension filled the space around them the longer the silence lasted, but Derek didn't dare open his mouth again for fear of making things worse.

Right as it was becoming unbearable, Stiles snorted and remarked, "So that's how it sounds when I ramble."

And just like that, the awkward atmosphere disappeared and Derek had to stifle a chuckle with the back of his hand.

"No seriously. That was impressive. And surprisingly coherent."

"Still not up to your standards, I'm guessing," Derek snarked back.

"Well, _I_ am a rambling black belt. It takes quite a while to get to the level I'm at, but I applaud your efforts nonetheless." Stiles rested his elbows on the table, placing his chin on top of his hands, and smirked teasingly at Derek.

They say and ate together in companionable silence for a few moments, and Derek watched with sadness as the lighthearted expression on Stiles' face slowly melted off into something tired and frustrated and hopeless. He quickly schooled it with a guarded, fake smile that he threw Derek's way when he noticed the man looking. Derek had thought they were doing good. They had been talking and teasing and relaxing and eating. Derek wondered what he could've done to fuck that up, but confusingly came up blank. Maybe it was the food? Maybe it was Stiles thinking about how he didn't want to be there. Maybe he was thinking about what those men had stolen from him.

Deciding to try and keep the ball rolling on this semi-openness they had with each other, Derek asked.

"What's wrong?"

Stiles sighed and put down his fork, folding his hands in his lap. "I should be out working right now. I don't have time to slack off."

Even though Derek couldn't see his face, he could imagine the worry that was evident in his voice clouding his eyes. "I've got a lot of stuff going on and coming up that I need to take care of, and I can't afford a week off. I already have to make up yesterday's earning. God, those dickbags. They fucking messed up everything," Stiles muttered pathetically as he buried his face in his palms.

Derek felt useless. He didn't know what to do to help Stiles without making it seem like he was some charity case. Pity was one of the worst things to receive from someone, Derek knew that first hand, and there were some patronizing people out there that handed it out like it was some sort of gift.

After a moment's contemplation, Derek suggested, "I think you should stay in today, but we could go out tomorrow?"

Lifting his head out of his hands, Stiles gave Derek a quizzical look. "We? As in… You're gonna go with me?"

"Well, I don't have to if you don't want me to-"

"No! That's not what I meant! Uh, I was just surprised. I mean, you'd seriously do that? It'd be all day, you know. Don't you have a job? Something you'd rather be doing?" he inquired.

 _No,_ thought Derek. And wasn't that the kicker? That there was nothing he'd rather be doing than spending time with Stiles, watching him make art? That he couldn't possibly imagine having a better day?

Actually, the more Derek thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't at all some big revelation. In fact, he would've been more surprised if the idea of being with Stiles _didn't_ make him irrationally excited. With all the time he's spent imagining what Stiles was like, getting the chance to _actually_ get to know him sent a thrill through his body.

Instead of voicing _any_ of that, Derek responded, "I work from home and have a pretty flexible schedule. Don't worry about that; it's nothing that can't be made up in a few days."

"Really? You mean you're _not_ some sort of stereotypically hot officer, firefighter, or trainer?" asked Stiles with a lifted eyebrow, totally unashamed. "Then what do you do?"

Blushing _again,_ for fuck sake, Derek mumbled, "I'm an author."

Surprise overtook Stiles' features and his wide eyes swept over Derek's form, as if trying to find something he'd missed before. What that something was, Derek wasn't sure, but he _was_ sure that it certainly was not helping at all with the lovely shade of pink he had turned.

"That was… totally not what I was expecting. But I can see it now. You in a sweater vest and pair of reading glasses- oh god, _please_ tell me you have glasses. The whole tortured soul writer thing would not be complete on you without a nice pair of lenses. What do you write? Mystery murders? Sci-fi? Poetry? Something torturous, right? You know, to fit the dark and broody thing you've got going on?"

Derek snorted. "I'm not a 'tortured soul'."

"But you _are_ dark and broody. How can you be a dark and broody writer without being a tortured soul?"

"Because," Derek deadpanned, "I don't have a soul."

Stiles let out a bark of loud and surprised laughter, then winced and held a hand to his stomach. But the grin never left his face as he quipped, "So you're a tortured corpse? A meat suit? Is someone _else_ in there? Crowley? Actually, no, you're way too fucking perfect to be a demon. Castiel, how 'bout you, you in there?"

Though amused (and still blushing), Derek was mostly confused. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm guessing it's some obscure reference to something only you would know?"

"Obscure-" Stiles looked astonished and a bit offended. "Who even are you? In what world is 'Supernatural' obscure?! That's just horrible. I can't believe I'm even sitting in the presence of someone so ignorant."

Derek couldn't quite hold back a smirk as he said, "I'm so sorry to have so deeply offended you. Do you think you could ever forgive such an uncultured swine, like myself?"

"I suppose, just this once. But only if you allow me to un-swine-ify you. Do you have Netflix?"

Derek did, in fact, have Netflix, which was how he found himself sitting on his sofa next to Stiles watching the first episode of Supernatural. He had to look away at the part with the house catching fire and the mother dead on the ceiling, but he saw Stiles looking away, too.

After that, he found it easy to become invested in the storyline and adventures of the two brothers.

"Dean is like a mixture of us. You have his rugged good looks and air of badassery, and I have his wit and appetite," Stiles whispered at some point during episode three. "Think we'd be any good against the supernatural?"

"You're too distracted and I'm a pacifist. I think we'd last about five minutes."

"Huh. I wouldn't have pegged you as a pacifist. What about those guys you beat up last night?" Stiles asked skeptically.

And holy hell Derek was probably just going to turn pink and stay that way forever. Because he _did_ hate violence. With a _passion_. Yet he hadn't hesitated one second to defend Stiles against those men. And it wasn't because Stiles was innocent; if it had been any other other person he'd have threatened to call the cops to scare them away. No, it was because it was _Stiles._ Not that he was going to tell him that.

"It was a rough situation. I don't regret it, but I wish I hadn't had to." It was true, and decent enough as far as excuses went. Stiles seemed satisfied with it, too, and he turned his attention back to the TV.

It got later in the evening and Derek ordered Chinese for dinner, ignoring Stiles' insistence that he was not hungry and that Derek didn't have to get him anything. Derek wasn't stupid, after all. He knew what Stiles was doing, even if he hadn't been able to hear his stomach grumbling. Stiles didn't want to feel indebted to someone, or like he needed someone else's help. He preferred to depend only on himself and what he earned, not on someone who could make him seem vulnerable, which was anyone other than himself. Derek knew the feeling; maybe not as vividly, as he'd never been in such a vulnerable state of living, but he still understood.

Despite his previous assertions, Stiles helped Derek eat two orders of general tso's chicken, fried rice, low mein, egg drop soup, and crab rangoons. Once they had stuffed their faces with food and could do little more than sit on the couch, Stiles held up two fortune cookies.

"Which one do you want? Choose carefully."

Derek reached over and grabbed one of the cookies, taking it out of its wrapper as Stiles did the same.

"What's the weirdest fortune you've ever gotten?" he asked.

Derek thought for a moment before a smile came to his face, remembering one. "It said,'Thanks, I've been stuck in here forever.' You?"

"'Don't fear computers.'"

"I've gotten a blank one before."

"My lucky number was '666'."

"Well," chuckled Derek, "Let's hope these are slightly better."

They both cracked open their cookies and read them over. "What's yours say?" asked Stiles.

"' _Happiness is not by chance, but by choice_.'" He thought about it for a moment, dwelling on his choices so far in life and how many wrong ones he's made. How his own unhappiness was his own fault. Then Stiles spoke.

"' _All things are difficult before they are easy_.'" He looked down at his fortune with a tired expression, and Derek couldn't imagine what must've been running through his head. "Let's sure hope so."


End file.
